


Seldom for the Better

by dean_littlespoon_winchester



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Eating Disorders, M/M, Multi, Sammy is sad, Self-Harm, Super depressing and possibly triggering, Temporarily Unrequited Love, The non-con part is not between Sam and Dean fyi, There's a happy ending eventually I promise, Underage Sex, Weechesters, incest (duh), triggering
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-14
Updated: 2015-11-05
Packaged: 2018-02-13 02:51:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2134368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dean_littlespoon_winchester/pseuds/dean_littlespoon_winchester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“The Plagiarist turns the body inside-out and changes the bones.” </p><p>– Chinese proverb</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a very dark fic and I might not ever get around to finishing it so read at your own risk

The first time Sam sees Dean's girlfriend, he hates her. Sam is thirteen years old, and he's waiting for his brother to pick him up from school when he sees him walking hand-in-hand with the girl, and he seethes. She's annoyingly pretty, with chestnut brown hair that curls inwards towards her neck and rests on her breasts. Her eyes are hazel and shift in their sockets like a cat's, resting on Dean's face as she smiles at him. Sam doesn't even know her name, and he already hates her.

Dean seems to flow with her with so much ease. His fingers entwine with hers like puzzle pieces and when he looks at her face he smiles genuinely. Sam hates it.

"You're late," Sam says, and he earns a slightly more stiff smile from his brother, unlike the smiles he was sharing with the girl on his arm. Sam stands up from the table where he was reading and slings his backpack over his shoulder.

"Hey, Sammy." He steps away from the girl and claps Sam on the shoulder "Sorry 'bout that. I was just walking Veronica from her class and – "

"Whatever, let's go," Sam says quickly and exits the school library with Dean close behind. He makes sure to shoot the girl a nasty glare as Dean kisses her goodbye.

When they get back to the motel, Sam drops his backpack by the door and strides into the bathroom, locking the door behind him. He strips down to his boxers and stares at himself in the mirror for a long time.

_What does Dean see in her?_

His eyes wander over his stomach, and below his chest where there are faint outlines of his ribs beneath the growing muscles.

_What's so great about her?_

Veronica is tall, almost Dean's height, and curvy. Her front was flat but her sides were contoured in soft slopes that gave her an hourglass shape. Sam frowns as he looks over his sides, and everything seems to be flat on him. He flexes, un-flexes, and turns to the side. He contorts himself into uncomfortable positions to try to exaggerate his curves -- or lack of.

_Her legs are thick at the top and get thin, and when her feet touch, there is a gap between her thighs._

The image of her body is seared into his mind, and tears gather in his eyes as he surveys his completely unfeminine form. Little nagging voices point out his every flaw.

_Why can't he like me like that?_

_You're disgusting. He'll never like you._

_He's your brother. Freak. Disgusting._

"Stop," Sam whimpers and the shock from hearing his own cracked voice makes the voices cease. He takes a deep breath and glances over himself once more before nodding. "I can change."

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

"Hungry?" Dean grins and sets a paper bag down on the table. Sam closes his book, wrinkling his nose at the smell of fast food burgers.

"Ew. No." _Lie. He's starving._

"Are you sure?" Dean doesn't look concerned, it's just his immediate response to question Sam. "Did you eat yet?"

Sam shifts in his chair and nods. "Yeah I had a salad at school." _Lie. He hasn't eaten in two days._

After a moment of quiet, Dean shrugs and pulls out a greasy burger, taking a big bite and mumbling "health freak" through the food in his mouth.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

On the third day, Sam falls asleep during class.

He read somewhere that after a day of fasting your body starts to eat away at itself, but every time he looks in the mirror he sees the same body and it doesn't seem to be getting any better.

After school, he turns down a ride back to the motel from Dean and instead walks to Walgreens. He stares at the bandage aisle for a long time before picking a relatively wide ace bandage. He purchases it with crumpled dollar bills and hides it in his backpack, behind the textbooks.

At the motel, he finds a note from Dean that claims he gave Veronica a ride home and might be home late. Sam swallows down a painful lump in his throat as he crumples up the note and throws it away.

He then heads to the bathroom and strips in front of the mirror. He has a headache and his lips are cracked, and his skin is taking on a papery yellow look. He unravels the bandage and stars wrapping it around his waist, starting below his navel. He works his way up and tightens the wrap around the middle, making the flat lines of his sides slope slightly in mock-curves. He stares at himself for a long time, and groans as he notices that the bandage causes his skin to indent at the top and bottom of the wrap. He pokes the skin where it dips.

_Gotta get rid of that, or there's no point in even trying._

"But I'm so hungry." His lip quivers.

_Do you want food, or do you want him to love you like he loves her?_

He settles on a glass of water and goes to sleep, and he's glad he doesn't hear Dean come in later that night.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Sam dreams about his brother often. He's dreamt about Dean since he was young, but in his later years the dreams have taken a different tone. They used to be about Sam being cornered by monsters and Dean fighting them away for him, protecting him, keeping him safe at all costs. Recently they've been different, though.

When he drifts asleep, he succumbs to images of soft pink lips, mussed golden hair, freckled skin, warmth surrounding him, and warmth inside him. Dean holds him, and takes care of him, and envelopes him in his love.

When Sam inevitably wakes up in the dark motel room, he shudders at the stark contrast between his dreams and the reality he's forced to live in. Dean doesn't love him. Dean loves Veronica and Dad, but not Sam. Sam is a burden.

He changes his dirtied sheets with tears in his eyes.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

On the fourth day, Dean makes him eat.

"I'm fine, Dean. Worry about feeding yourself."

"Sam you haven't eaten at all today, and I know that for a fact. I saw you at lunch and I've been with you all day since then, you haven't eaten a thing." Dean looks slightly concerned, and it twists Sam's stomach into a painful knot. He doesn't want to hurt his brother.

"I'm just not hungry, ok?" he says and rolls his eyes at his brother. Dean furrows his brow.

"Are you sick, or what? Got the flu? C'mon, Sammy, just talk to me at least!"

"I..." Sam scratches his arm, where the fabric of his shirt is bothering his skin. Really, his whole body feels rather bothered. "I just had a stomach ache. I don't wanna eat if it'll just come right back up."

Dean stares at him for a long time before getting his car keys and leaving without saying a work. Just when Sam is starting to panic, thinking Dean has left him, his brother returns with a salad from the nearest fast food restaurant.

"Eat it. If you feel sick afterwards, we'll go get you checked out." He hands the plastic container to Sam and watches him eat about two thirds of it before he's satisfied enough to leave. "I gotta go pick up Veronica. I'll be home in a few hours," he says over his shoulder as he leaves.

Sam doesn't respond, just waits for the door to click shut and runs into the bathroom, eyes watering as he empties his stomach into the toilet. He spits and uses mouthwash, then strips and wraps the bandage around his waist. His skin is red and irritated in several spots but he mostly pays attention to the outlines of his ribs, which are becoming more prominent.

Sam stares at his waist and legs, and when he puts his feet together there's a gap between his thighs, but his legs are scrawny and not curvy like Veronica's. The fat around the edges of the wrap is diminishing, though, and he smiles faintly to himself.

_Getting better._

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Two weeks go by, and Sam has fallen into a pattern. He read up all the information he could find online, and instead of starving completely, he puts himself on a calorie limit. Two hundred per day. At first he only eats small things like grapes, apple slices, maybe a drink or two of juice, and a lot of water. But then one day he sums up the courage to eat a low calorie granola bar, munching on a small chunk every few hours an making it last all day.

He still feels sick and tired all the time, and eating anything makes him queasy, but he knows it'll be better this way. Dean no longer bothers him about eating, because after the long month of being left alone, Dad has finally returned from his hunt and Dean spends all his time and energy being a good soldier. John immediately notices the difference in Sam, though, and points it out.

"Why'd you have to go and get all scrawny on me while I was gone?" He's only poking fun, but there's an air of seriousness behind his words that makes Sam panic inside. He rolls his eyes and doesn't respond.

His bathroom routine becomes a ritualistic kind of thing. He saves up enough money to buy one of those high-end stomach control garments (in the smallest size they had) and in the evening he wears it while he picks himself apart in the mirror. He promises himself he'll buy a real binder soon, when he has the money.

Since his ribs and hip-bones are more deeply contrasted now, it's beginning to make a natural curve in his waist. But his skin is still constantly irritated and his sunken eyes always have bags beneath them, and he still hates the way he looks.

_Veronica's skin is perfect, radiant and flawless._

He stares at his increasingly bony arms while he showers, and the itch beneath his skin is so overwhelming that one night he brings his butterfly knife into the shower with him and cuts at all the spots that itch.

In the end, his arms, legs, and sides each have a few small scratches, but that's nothing long sleeves and jeans can't hide.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

A week later, they're on the road.

Sam feels a twinge of something halfway between guilt and happiness when he watches Dean kiss Veronica goodbye. Something about the drawn look on Dean's face when he gets in the car makes Sam feel like this is all his fault. But he knows it's not; Dad found another hunt a few states over and that's why they're leaving.

He tugs self consciously at the sleeves of his sweatshirt and cringes when the fabric rubs against his fresh wounds. He hadn't thought about the whole close contact with clothing thing. He'd been so lost in the moment -- and lost in the sight of his blood, thick and red and running down his skin, mingling with the drops of water from the shower.

Once they're driving, things get better. Dad puts on an old AC/DC tape and Dean sings along loudly, shooting winks at Sam every once in a while, making him grin and shake his head, pretending to be embarrassed. Sam's stomach starts hurting less because of the guilt, but it still aches with hunger and fatigue.

When Dad stops at In-N-Out, Sam says he's not hungry, and no one questions him.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

"You boys be good. I'm lookin' at you, Dean," is the last thing Dad says to them before he leaves for the new hunt. He's joking, which is good, because it signifies how much better things have been between him and his sons. He no longer has to tell Dean to "watch out for Sammy" and "shoot first, ask questions later," because those instructions must be the only sure thing Dean knows by now. The words are engraved in his bones, his heart, his soul.

Dad plans on being gone for a little over a week, which is good and bad for Sam. The upside is that with a short stay like this, they won't be enrolling in school, therefor not allowing Dean to mingle with girls and get another relationship like with their month-long stay with Veronica.

The bad news is that Dean will be in close quarters with Sam for most of the time and things are already hard to hide.

Sam's skin is flaky, taught, and always itching just beyond his reach. He's sure his appearance has changed dramatically by now, but he still isn't satisfied with his results. His bones are visible but just not quite jutting enough. His eyes seem to sit back in his skull where the light can't reach him, and he's gotten into the habit of always wearing baggy clothes that hide his form. Dean has only commented jokingly on Sam's appearance -- "Needa get you back into fighting shape or dad'll kick my ass for letting you slack off" -- but Sam can see the way he looks at him with new, raw concern. And it makes Sam's stomach twist into knots, because he doesn't want his brother to look at him that way. He wants Dean to look at him the way he looks at Veronica and all those other girls that he drools over.

His dreams continue to be full of Dean; Dean's laugh, Dean's smell, Dean's lips on his lips, Dean's lips in other places -- and he always wakes up the same way, crying softly in a dark motel with a sticky mess drying in his boxers. Always the same.

But Dean has been smiling at him more lately, and when those perfect lips curl into a grin it send all sorts of feelings through Sam's body and he loves it. He loves every second of it, and he just can't get enough of dean, even though Dean doesn't feel the same.

 _Brothers_ , the voices say. _You're brothers. You're sick. Sick. Disturbed. Freak._

And he still cries and tears himself apart in the shower, but that's ok because he's getting better, and he's gonna make dean love him, one way or another.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

On the third evening of dad being gone, Dean asks Sam to see a movie with him.

"Excuse me?" Sam says, after nearly choking to death on a drink of water.

Dean rolls his eyes. "I said, let's go catch a movie tonight. I got some extra cash from playin' pool an' I wanna get outta this shithole for the night."

It's not like it's a weird suggestion or anything. Sam and Dean have seen plenty of movies in their spare time. Just not lately. And with the way things have been lately, Sam feels like Dean has just proposed. It's a ridiculous thought and Sam pushes it away immediately with disgust.

"Yeah, whatever," he says casually. He drinks his water until he's full -- a trick he learned while doing "research" on a library computer.

They head to the theater later that evening, and decide on the cheapest movie being shown, which happens to be some run-of-the-mill ghost movie. Dean buys a big bucket of popcorn and carries the ridiculously sized thing into the theater with a huge grin. Sam snorts but his heart races at how stunning his brother under the low lighting of the theater hallway.

The next thing he knows, they're sitting in those uncomfortably cushioned theater chairs and the movie is halfway over. Sam isn't even bothering to watch the screen anymore, he's staring at Dean -- Dean's face, Dean's eyelashes, the way Dean's jaw clenches and unclenches when he chews a mouthful of popcorn. And before he can look away, Dean is looking back at him too.

Sam freezes up while Dean just stares back with a look of confusion and pain, and Sam can't figure out why he's looking at him like that, but now it's like he can't control himself anymore and he leans in and his lips clash with Dean's. He tastes like popcorn and his lips are salty and somewhat dry, but Sam doesn't care, he holds his mouth on his brother's and Dean doesn't move for a long time. But then he does move, and _oh god, he's leaning in and opening his mouth up for Sam's tongue_.

Sam can't believe it. He can't breathe. He doesn't even have asthma but he thinks he could die from an asthma attack at any second. He pushes his tongue in, and runs it along Dean's perfect lips and perfect teeth. He can't believe it, he's actually kissing Dean. And _Dean is kissing him back._

The moment is short lived, because Dean stands abruptly, disconnecting from Sam and spilling that half-full ridiculously sized bucket of popcorn onto the people in front of them. They curse and whine but Dean doesn't even bother apologizing, he grabs Sam by the collar of his hoodie and drags the younger out of the theater and into the dim hallway, where he shoves him against the wall.

Sam flinches, fear rising into his throat, expecting Dean to pummel him. "De, I..." He doesn't finish, because there's not much he can say.

And Dean just stares at him with palpable intensity, his eyes gleaming like emeralds in the dim lights. His lips are still wet and red from the kiss, and he's breathing heavily against Sam's face. Sam can't quite make out the look on his face, but then Dean glances to Sam's lips and lets him go, striding out the door and leaving Sam half-terrified and half-hard leaning on the wall, thinking _what have I done?_

Dean is waiting for him in the impala when he finally straightens himself out and leaves the theater. His jaw is set in a hard line and he's staring straight ahead, kneading the steering wheel with white knuckles. Sam sits in the passenger seat and just stares at his brother, then looks away and bites his lip, holding back tears.

_What have I done?_

_You freak, he doesn't want you. You forced yourself on him. Freak._

"Dean --"

Dean starts the engine, cutting Sam off as he speeds towards the motel. When they get back, Dean heads straight for the bathroom and locks himself in it until well after Sam has gotten into bed, which sucks because Sam has to go to sleep without doing his nightly ritual for the first time in weeks.

The urges are bad, but the guilt he feels as Dean slams the door behind him and gets into the other bed wordlessly is even worse.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in honor of the anniversary of Mary Winchester's death I wrote a big chunk of chapter 3 today and yesterday. hoping to finish this week! ALSO, I fixed a continuity error where I said spring instead of autumn. the story is set in the fall!

The rest of the week is like watching the aftermath of a natural disaster.

Dean doesn't talk to Sam. He doesn't look at him, and he barely acknowledges his existence. In the mornings he gets up early and leaves before Sam wakes up, and he comes back later in the afternoon stinking like booze and cheap perfume. Sam always has a soreness in his throat when he looks at his brother.

After three days of torture, Dad finally comes back. When he enters the motel room to find Sam alone on his bed staring at the ceiling, he immediately scans the room and looks puzzled.

"Where's Dean?"

Sam shudders because it's the most anyone has talked to him in days, and also because the sound of Dean's name makes him break a little bit inside.

"Out."

John's face darkens. "He left you here alone?" He sounds on the borderline between angry and confused.

Sam shrugs because there's really nothing to say. He can't explain why Dean left him, because then his brother _and_ his dad would hate him.

"Damn kid's askin' to get his ass beat," Dad mumbles as he sets his bag down and goes back out to his truck. He sets out all his knives and guns and various weapons on Dean's bed and begins to clean them. One of the machetes is coated with dried blood and Sam spaces off while watching his father scrub and sharpen it.

A little under an hour later, the impala roars into the parking lot and Dean enters the room. He spots his father and the color drains from his face a bit as he stares at the older man.

"Hey, d–"

"You're lucky I don't whoop you right here and now, son. I thought I raised you better than this. Leaving your little brother alone while you go and do who knows what at some seedy bar?" Dad sets down the gun he's cleaning and stands up, almost toe-to-toe with his oldest son. "And you stink like a cheap hooker. What's gotten into you?"

Dean clenches his jaw and steals a glance at Sam before looking down and mumbling, "I'm sorry."

"What is wrong with you?" John's voice is laced with disgust and disappointment and it hits Dean like bullets. "You realize that anything could've happened while you were gone? Anyone or anything could've come in here and _killed him_ , or worse?"

Sam flinches and Dean looks like he's about to fall apart. "I... I know. It won't happen again, sir."

John snorts. "Damn right it won't." He turns and grabs his jacket and eyes his sons. "I'm gonna go get some ammo. Dean, try not to abandon your brother this time while I'm gone."

He leaves and Sam immediately runs into the bathroom, dry heaving into the toilet. His stomach is empty so all that comes up is acid and blood.

It burns his throat, but not as much as the way Dean looks at him when he comes out, with a deadness in his eyes.

~*~*~*~*~

They're on the road again later that day, but this time it's different.

John and Sam ride in the truck that bobby lent John for his most recent hunt. Dean drives behind them, alone in the impala, which has practically become his since John started borrowing bigger and more powerful vehicles from Bobby.

Their next stop is Bobby's house, and at first Sam thinks it's only to return the truck. But when they arrive at the run-down lot early the next morning, John tells the boys to bring their bags in and get comfortable.

"We're not staying here, are we?" Dean questions as he stands with his duffel in his hand. Sam can't help noticing how tired Dean looks, like he hasn't slept in a week. Like he hasn't slept since Sam _forced himself on him_.

Sam shudders the thought away and looks to his father who is staring at Dean with a grimace. He's been looking at Dean like this ever since he discovered he had left Sam alone, and it makes Sam's eyes burn with tears because he knows it's all his fault.

"For now," is all Dad says.

He helps the boys carry in their few belongings and some weapons as well. Bobby greets Sam and Dean at the front door with a pat on the back. He nods sternly at John, who tells the boys to go get unpacked. But Sam lingers behind in the next room, listening through the wall, because he knows there more to what's going on than John is letting them know.

They rarely stay at Bobby's house. The last time they did, it was because Dad was gone tracking a witch for over a month. "You sure you can handle this on your own?" Bobby asks, caution in his voice. There's a pause, and Sam can faintly here John sigh. He imagines his father standing there in the doorway, rubbing his eyes and looking as worn-down as ever.

"I have to. I can't risk getting the boys involved, and this is the first big lead since Mary–" John stops talking immediately, and Sam furrows his brow. Dad never talks about their mom. He only ever talks about _the demon that killed her._  

This must be huge.

The older men mumble their goodbyes briefly and Sam hears Bobby say something along the lines of "Don't get yourself killed, ya idjit," and then the door slams and John's truck rumbles out of the driveway.

Sam starts to creep towards the stairs when Bobby sighs and says "You can quit hiding now," from the other room. Sam swears his heart stops momentarily, but there's no anger in Bobby's voice so he steps into the room carefully. Bobby, who has been like a second father to Sam since he was a baby, is gazing at him with tired eyes.

"Will he be okay?" Sam asks quietly and tugs at one of his sleeves. With a sigh, the older man nods.

"That man's the most stubborn son of a bitch I've ever met. He ain't gonna die unless it's on his own terms." His words are reassuring, but the way Bobby's eyes hold such a forlorn stare makes Sam doubt his honesty. And then Bobby's stare turns into something different as he looks over Sam's lank form.

"Are you on a hunger strike or what, boy?" Bobby says, and at first Sam thinks he's joking as Dad had been, but he actually sounds serious, and he's looking at Sam expectantly. He wants an answer.

"I..." Sam looks down and adjusts the duffel strap on his shoulder. "No. I'm fine." He turns on his heel and strides to his room before Bobby can interject.

And when he sneaks off into the bathroom later to weigh himself on Bobby's old dusty scale, he feels strange. Like somehow his actions are sacrilegious in this house that has been the only constant safe place in his life.

~*~*~*~*~

The next day, Dean immediately finds work to do around the lot.

Sam stands in the room he had claimed and watches his brother through the window for some time. He likes the way his brother looks in the pale sunlight. The sky is overcast with clouds and the sun is just a faint outline behind the gray, but it's still producing enough light to reflect off Dean's skin where it's slick with sweat.

He's currently shirtless, despite the chilly autumn air, and he's been working on the same truck since early this morning. Bobby had given him some vague instruction on what to do with the old hunk of metal and Dean had taken off out of the house as if it was a quarantined zone.

"That boy sure is handy."

Sam jumps at the voice behind him. He turns quickly, staring at Bobby guiltily. He doesn't know why he feels guilty; it's not like he'd been caught watching Dean showering.

Bobby looks down at Sam fondly, and his eyes hold more love than John's ever do. Sam pulls at his sleeve and feels guilty when the fabric rubs against his fresh wounds, the ones he made last night that still haven't stopped bleeding. His sweater is black, so there are no obvious blood stains, but the inside of the sleeve is damp and sticky.

"Yeah," is all he says in return.

"Why aren't you eating, Sam?" Sam flinches, caught completely off guard by the question. He searches Bobby's face for disgust, disappointment, or anything of the sort, but all he sees is love, worry, and... something else.

_Fear._

He's overwhelmed. Bobby is once again looking expectantly at him, waiting for an answer. So he thinks. What can he possibly say to a question like that?

_I hate the way I look so I'm changing myself_

_I disgust myself?_

_I want to die?_

It all seems wrong in Sam's head. There's something else. He knows it, but he doesn't want to think about it. Can't think about it. It hurts too much, even worse than the open cuts on his arms, to think about him.

_Dean._

_Dean doesn't love me._

_Dean will love me if I do this._

_Dean loves skinny, curvy girls._

_Dean._

Sam doesn't realize he's crying until a tear hits the wooden floor, and it's loud enough in the silence to startle him. He glances up at Bobby, and now the fear is blatant on the older man's face.

"I don't know," Sam croaks before letting out a shuddering sob and covering his face. Bobby immediately pulls him into a hug, and Sam would usually flinch away because the pressure on his wounds is painful, but he thinks maybe he deserves the pain for being so fucked up.

When Bobby pulls away and looks down at Sam, the fear on the old man's face is once again concealed. He looks worried, but not scared. He grasps Sam's shoulders in his calloused hands and squeezes gently.

"Come help me make dinner."

~*~*~*~*~

Sam tells Bobby everything while he cuts up vegetables for the stew.

Everything.

He tells him about his dreams and his nightmares about Dean. He tells him about Veronica and how angry she had made him. He tells him about the midnight diet researching at the library, and how he learned which foods hold the least calories and which exercises burn the most calories. He tells him about the bandages and the stomach control garment and the constant need to change.

He doesn't tell bobby about the cutting, but he tells him about the night at the movie theater.

"I'm so fucked up," he mutters as he pours a bowl of chopped onions and celery into the simmering pan. He's not crying anymore. He feels sort of numb, and he hasn't looked at Bobby for a reaction, but the way the man is silent tells him that he doesn't know what to say. Of _course_ Bobby wouldn't know what to say to something like that, something so sick and disgusting.

Sam doesn't care anymore though. It doesn't matter to him that anyone thinks he's fucked up. Its like there's this pit deep inside of him and it's growing and growing and consuming every feeling that passes him. He can't quite put his finger on it, but it's getting restless.

After what seems like hours, Bobby speaks up. "You must really love him."

Ok, now Sam really feels like crying again, because yeah, he loves Dean. As a brother, as a caretaker, and as something so fucked up he can't even think it. But Dean can't even stand to be in the same house as him, and it makes the pit in his stomach grow even more, to the point where it almost hurts, but that might just be from the hunger and the smell of the stew cooking in front of him.

"I shouldn't." He tightens his hand over the kitchen knife resting on the counter. Bobby doesn't know about his harming tendencies, otherwise he wouldn't have let Sam cut the vegetables.

Bobby pauses, throws some spices into the pan, and sighs. "Maybe not. But there's no use pretending something doesn't exist just to make it go away."

There's no disgust in Bobby's tone or on his face and it's quite possibly the most relieving thing that's happened to Sam in weeks. Maybe months. And he feels somewhat better, but there's still the fact that Dean hates him.

"Bobby..." Sam turns towards him slowly. "Can you... maybe, not tell him?" The unspoken _about the starving_ must be apparent to Bobby because he nods knowingly.

"He'd blame himself," Sam mumbles.

"Well it is kinda his fault, isn't it?" Just like that, the pit in him grows deeper.

"N-no, it's not, it's my fault. I'm the one who–"

"Boy, he was living with you all this time and didn't do a damn thing. The moment I saw you, I knew something was wrong, Sam. You don't exactly look ship-shape." He covers the pan with its lid and turns down the heat a notch, then looks over Sam with concern. "Anyways, I'm not gonna tell him."

Sam releases a breath he didn't know he was holding. "Thankyousomuch, I–"

Bobby cuts him off. "But I am going to do something about this."

~*~*~*~*~

Sam is made to eat all his meals at the kitchen table with Dean and Bobby, which is awful for a few reasons.

First of all, there's the fact that Dean will look anywhere but at him when they're in the same room, and that means that for the twenty minutes or so that it takes to eat, Sam has to endure the knowing glances from Bobby and the disgruntled faces Dean makes when he knows Sam is looking at him.

Oh, and there's also the fact that Sam can barely put any food past his lips without feeling nauseous.

Eventually the lunches or dinners are over and Sam recedes back to his room, and Dean back to the yard. And, of course, once he's sure no one is around to hear him, Sam hurries to the bathroom and pukes up everything he can into the toilet, or sometimes down the drain if he's taking a shower.

_(the running water covers up the sound.)_

At night, Sam slips into the bathroom with his hands tightly holding his 'stomach binder,' as he's dubbed it, and his butterfly knife. He strips in front of the mirror. He frowns at himself. He cries a little bit. Then he sits in the corner and reopens his scabs.

When he's done, there's blood running down his arms and legs, which he dabs away with toilet paper and covers the wounds haphazardly with band aids. His routine is always the same.

Except, one night, as he's leaving the bathroom, he hears a strange noise in the silence of the old house. It's coming from down the hall where Bobby's room is. He tip toes on the creaky wooden floors, and stops in front if the door. He feels his blood run cold when he realizes that he's listening to Bobby crying softly.

Because of him.

_This is all your fault._

Sam scurries back to his room and cries himself to sleep.

~*~*~*~*~

A week passes. And another week. Every day the same.

Sam and Dean wake up every morning at about the same time, probably because they've spent so many years on the road together and their internal clocks are set the same. It makes for awkward mornings though, because they both step out of their rooms and head down the stairs at almost the exact same time.

Bobby cooks for them almost every day, but on the days that he doesn't, the brothers make toast or cereal. Either way, Sam promptly puts his meals into the toilet afterwards. He feels bad about it, because he knows cooking for him is Bobby's way of trying to make it better, and the food is actually really good, but he can't stop now because he's finally starting to like what he sees in the mirror.

Today, breakfast is eggs and bacon with orange juice. Dean finishes early and strides out the back door, where he gets to work on one of the many cars he's promised Bobby he'd fix up.

Sam heads to the bathroom, and when he's done he goes back into his room. He watches Dean through his bedroom window for a few minutes, until Bobby comes into his room without warning. He stands in front of Sam for a moment with hands hands behind his back, looking as if he's trying to find words.

"Hey," Sam says quickly, a little alarmed by Bobby's sudden entrance.

Sighing a little, Bobby removes his hands from behind him and holds out a small parcel wrapped with a red ribbon. "Here. Thought I'd get you a little something for you big day."

Confused, Sam takes the parcel and begins to unwrap it.

It's a knife.

Bobby got him a knife.

Sam wants to scream.

"I know it's not all that original, but..." Bobby's voice trails off. "Happy birthday." It suddenly clicks.

"It's my birthday?"

Bobby rolls his eyes. "Your next present from me is gonna be a calendar."

"Thanks, Bobby," Sam says with a smile as he runs his finger gently along the knife's edge. Bobby leaves and Sam tucks the weapon under his pillow.

When Sam resumes his spot at the window, Dean suddenly stops what he's going and strides back toward the house. Less than a minute later, there's a knock at his door, and Dean enters before Sam can say a word.

He stands in the doorway looking uncomfortable for a minute before finally locking eyes with Sam.

"Let's go for a drive."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He holds me in his big arms, drunk and I am seeing stars, this is all I think of."  
> –Lana Del Rey, "Video Games."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so I finally got this posted and then realized the html didn't transfer so all of Sam's thoughts I had italicized for emphasis arent italicized so keep that in mind as you read and I'll try to fix it when ever I get the chance

Silence; it fills the cab as the Impala hums gently over the road. Sam watches the speedometer. The red needle dances ever so slightly between sixty-five and seventy, and it feels too slow. Too lenient. His mind is going a hundred miles an hour and his body is lagging behind. 

Silence; not the kind the Winchesters are used to. This silence isn't familiar and warm and comfortable. It isn't the kind where you don't say anything because you're content and there's nothing to say. It's the kind of silence that is a result of choking on words. It's the kind of silence that makes you wrack your brain to find something, anything to throw out into the air to fill the void of quiet. 

It's the kind of silence that drives you mad. 

Sam dares not ask their destination; he thinks if he tries to speak it might come out as a hoarse croak that will only leave him more embarrassed. He dares not look at his brother's face directly, but only by looking at him in the rearview mirror. He feels like a voyeur every time he steals a glance.He feels sick. He feels bad in every sense of the word. 

Dean's brow is furrowed and his eyes are clear. The older Winchester doesn't look up from the road. His knuckles are clenched like clamps on the steering wheel and even in such a dire circumstance Sam can't help imagining those hands in other situations. Those hands on his thighs. those fingers in his hair gripping tight. Those hands– 

reaching for him. Sam flinches as Dean's hand uncurls in front of him and he just sits there, one hand on the steering wheel, one in front of the younger with the palm facing up. Beckoning. 

"Tunes." 

Sam does a double take. Flinches again. "What?"

"Music." Impatient now. Sam connects the dots and it clicks. He pops open the glove box and passes the worn box of tapes to his brother. 

"Sorry," Sam mutters as Dean, still focused on the road, blindly shuffles through the box until he finds what he's looking for and pops the case-less tape into the stereo. An unidentifiable rock album begins to play, allowing Sam to sigh in relief at the newfound white noise. 

Dean grunts his delayed reply. 

Five minutes later the pavement turns to gravel and Dean is punching it, the car bypassing the speed limit and treading into speeds that would surely be arrest-worthy if they weren't on a backroad that no cop bothers to occupy. The speedometer is fidgeting between eighty and eighty-five when Dean slows the car dramatically and skids it, sideways, to a screeching stop. 

Sam is slammed against the passenger door and still recovering from the stop when Dean gets out of the car and slams his door shut. The younger scrambles after him, opening scabs, hissing at the pain and composing himself quickly. He jumps out of the Impala and checks their surroundings. all around them is flat, grassy fields of dry clumps of grass. The dust cloud that had trailed the car is settling and the sun is low on the morning horizon. If the place wasn't so void of life it would be beautiful. 

Dean is sitting on the hood pulling something out of his pocket, and Sam steps closer and realized it's a pack of cigarettes, Marlboro black 100's, and he pulls one out, long and slender between his fingers. 

"You-" Sam loses his voice and when it comes back it's quiet and hoarse. "You smoke?" 

Dean pulls out a zippo, barely hinged and covered in rust, and lights the tip of the cigarette with a flick of his wrist. He takes a deep drag and the smoke billows from his mouth. 

"Sometimes." He takes another drag, deeper, longer. His eyes flutter closed and he leans back, letting the crisp white autumn sunlight hit his face as he exhales another cloud of smoke. "When I'm stressed."

"Oh," Sam whispers and he can't help thinking about how it's his fault that Dean is stressed to the point of smoking when he's never seen his brother do anything like this in his whole life. "You shouldn't. They're bad for you." He cringes at his own words and how stupid he sounds. 

You're such a baby. Grow the fuck up. 

"Seems like you've found some pretty unhealthy coping mechanisms lately too," Dean says without a lick of hesitation. He looks into Sam's eyes, unashamed, with no hint of any emotion, and it reminds Sam how much he hates this side of his brother; the side that can disguise any feeling at will and appear stone-cold and apathetic. In contrast, Sam can feel the panic creeping onto his own expression, unable to be hidden. 

"Bobby told you." His heart is collapsing. An icy shiver is traveling in tendrils from his empty core to his limbs. 

It isn't a question but Dean answers it with a shake of his head. "I'm not fucking stupid, Sam. Bobby didn't tell me shit, which was my first hint."

Sam is taken aback. "How'd you know?" 

What do you know?

This time when Dean made eye contact there was no mistaking the anger flashing in his eyes. "You think just because you tried to kiss me that I stopped caring? Do you think I stopped worrying about you or checking on you while you sleep or keeping track of how much you eat?" 

Sam could feel his own anger rising. "Yeah. That's what I thought. Because you won't even fucking look at me," he snaps. 

Dean clenches his jaw, takes one last drag of his cigarette and throws it on the ground, crushing it beneath his shoe. "I'm worried, Sam. And I'm at a fucking standstill. I don't know what to even say to you. I don't..." He hangs his head, rubs his temples, and when he looks up he appears utterly defeated. "I don't know what to say to you. I don't know how to look at you. I can't– I'm at a fucking loss, Sam." 

Sam laughs and he hates how violent it sounds. "Then why'd we even come here? I don't know what to say anymore than you do. Sorry for kissing you? Sorry for..." being in love with you? "Everything? I'm a shit person. Fucking ugly. I'm disgusting. I can't stop it. It's just who I am." 

Dean shook his head. "It's not though."

"Dean–"

"You're not." His voice was heavy. Demanding. It made the hairs stand on Sam's arms. "Let me tell you what you are. You're lost. Just going through some shit. And this?" Dean suddenly pulled Sam's knife and his stomach binder from the inside of his coat. Sam freezes. He doesn't even know when his brother took them. The panic returns. "These are your vices. This... thing you have for me, that's a vice too. You didn't mean it. Any of it. Okay? Just like my cigarettes. Those are my vices. Do you understand?"

Dean unconsciously closed the space between them and now he's inches away, breathing on Sam, and it's all too familiar. The incident in the theater comes to Sam's mind and he remembers how Dean looked at his lips and how Dean's lips were glistening from the kiss and it's all flooding through Sam, and he's feeling everything at once, and he hates it. He hates himself. 

Why can't I stop thinking about him like this? 

Why why why why why? 

"Sam," Dean breathes when he notices Sam staring at him like that, like an animal, eyeing him like a predator. "Sammy, please," he's pleading and when Sam dares to look into those green eyes he sees pure turmoil; fear, guilt, shame. 

"You feel it too," Sam whispers. It's not a question. He sees it now and he doesn't know how he didn't see it before. "You want me too."

Dean's mouth moves. Words don't come out. He furrows his brow and now he's gazing at Sam's lips like a starving man and Sam has no idea how he didn't see it before. The older brother is leaning in now, like a drunk trying to stay balanced, nearing and furthering, waxing and waning. There's not a consistent emotion present in his expression; just pure turmoil. 

How could I have been this blind? 

It can't be real. 

Is it real?

The younger licks his lips. "Say it, De. Please. Tell me you want me." Dean is all but whimpering when Sam slowly raises a shaking hand and rests it on Dean's neck. The latter flinches at the contact but doesn't pull himself away. "I need to hear it. Please."

"Sam." Dean looks away, laughs a little. Sam knows this side of him. He tries to play it off, but he can't. Every movement he makes is too forced, too unnatural. Too desperate. His act finally caves and he can't hide his shame, his desire. "It's wrong," he whispers. 

"It's not wrong if we both want it."

How can you justify this? Sicko. You fucking freak. 

Slowly, hesitantly, Dean brings up a hand to match Sam's, resting it on his little brother's cheek, cupping it and stroking beneath his eye gently with a callused thumb. 

He doesn't want you. You're forcing him to do this. 

"Tell me," Sam pleads. "I can't– I need you to say it so I can feel it." So you can make the nagging stop. "So I can feel normal." 

Somehow his words turn out to be the magic ones, because Dean wordlessly slides his hand around the back of Sam's neck and holds it there while he leans in and presses his lips to his brother's. It's ecstasy. Pure unadulterated happiness flutters through Sam and it's the best feeling he's ever experienced, being pulled by an unnamed force (love?) against Dean's body, into his presence. And as Dean kisses his lips, chastely, gently, yet thoroughly, he's amazed that something so wrong can feel so right. 

Without warning, Dean slides his hands down Sam's sides, caressing his skin through the baggy garments, down his ass to the back of his thighs where he grabs Sam and hoists him onto the hood of the Impala. Dean locks his lips on Sam's again, fiercely, this time devouring him. He doesn't try to be gentle. Sam pushes back against him, trying to assert his own power, but he's so weak in comparison to his brother, this force that's enveloping him like he's always dreamed, he can't do anything but lean into the kiss, taste his brother's rich cigarettes on his tongue, and savor this moment...

Until the older rests his hand on Sam's jutting hipbone, flinches, and pulls away from the kiss. And all Sam can see again is pain and guilt on Dean's flushed face, in his eyes. 

"Little brother, we'll never be normal." 

 

~*~*~*~*~*~ 

 

Anticlimactic. That's the one word Sam can use to describe his descent into debauchery as he lays on his bed staring at the ceiling. 

After the kiss, Dean once again left Sam half cocked and leaning on the Impala breathlessly. They both wordlessly got into the car and drove back to Bobby's, with no music to comfort the elongated silence. Sam kept wondering how such an intense moment could be over so fast. He didn't hide his glances at Dean this time. He desperately wanted Dean to notice him staring. He wanted Dean to answer his questions, confirm that what they did was real. 

Dean didn't even look at him. 

Sam sighs to himself and doesn't bother fighting the tears that come with the painful reminiscence. He's knifeless, stripped of his vices, and helpless. 

He wishes he could hate Dean for it but he can't feel anything close to hatred for him. 

 

~*~*~*~*~*~ 

 

Dinner is quiet and awkward. 

Sam honestly doesn't know what he expected. Dean once again slips wordlessly to the table, finishes his food before Sam or Bobby, and leaves, heading back to the yard to fix another car, or whatever he does when he's avoiding Sam. 

"I thought you guys talked today, what's up with moody?" Bobby asks once Dean is out the back door. 

Sam shrugs. "We did talk..." He hesitates. "But we didn't really come to any conclusion." 

Bobby nods solemnly and gathers their dishes. Sam offers to help with the cleanup but Bobby declines, mumbling something about the young boy needing his rest. 

Dinner doesn't taste as good coming up. 

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Suddenly it's three in the morning and Sam has been laying in bed for 5 hours waiting for sleep to find him. He runs his fingertips over the scabs that line his arms and follow his veins to the shoulders. They're starting to heal, closing up and leaving him a ghost of the pain he gave himself. He's shaking, restless, and he needs his knife. 

Sam spends what feels like hours more formulating an escape plan for his imprisoned vices. Dean's room is just down the hallway, he could tiptoe in and grab his coat and take back the knife and the wrap, but what would happen in the morning when Dean realizes they're gone? He'd have to face the repercussions and he doesn't even know how Dean would react to such a situation. He feels so far and disconnected from his brother right now, despite having only just shared their most intimate moment yet. 

He finally decides that he's willing to deal with the consequences of stealing back his things; he'll do anything for a release right now. So he pulls the covers back, lowers his feet to the old wooden floorboards, and creeps out his door into the hall. Carefully, silently, Sam makes his way to Dean's door, where he pauses with his hand on the doorknob. Turning slowly, holding his breath, he opens the door with a small click that makes his heart speed up. Opening the door to reveal his sleeping brother, Sam breathes a silent sigh of relief and tiptoes inside. 

Dean's coat is on the back of a chair in the corner of the room, his gun and keys and other belongings laid out on the seat. Sam slips his hand inside the old worn leather, feeling for the inside pocket, and quickly finding the hilt of his knife. He doesn't feel the stomach binder but he doesn't care, he hasn't kept any food down in over a week anyways and he doesn't really need the garment anymore, but he needs his knife. 

He turns around, holding his breath again, ready to leave, only to find Dean sitting on the edge of his bed, arms crossed, staring down the younger boy with intensity that is perceivable even in the dark. 

"C'mere," Dean grumbles with a sleep filled voice and holds out a hand demandingly. 

Sam hesitates, then steps forward shyly and lays the knife on Dean's palm. His hands are shaking. 

"Why do you do this to yourself, Sam?"

He shrugs. "It hurts." Hesitates. "But it feels good when I'm done. Feels peaceful. Like I'm letting the bad out."

Why the fuck are you telling him this?

He's just gonna think you're more of a freak. 

Look at him, staring at you; He thinks you're disgusting. 

Dean is indeed staring, but something in his stare holds comfort that Sam has become unfamiliar with. He looks like a concerned big brother and it reminds Sam that that's exactly what he is. 

The older Winchester sets the knife on his bedside table, takes a deep breath, and gestures toward Sam again. The younger boy creeps forward until they're almost knee to knee, Sam standing and his brother still sitting on the bed. 

"Let me see you," Dean says, and he slips his fingers under the hem of Sam's long sleeve pajama shirt before getting an answer. 

"What? Why?" 

Sam starts to back away when Dean grabs him by the hips and pulls him forward. He once again grips the hem of his shirt, this time looking up into the younger boy's eyes pleadingly. 

"Please. I need to see you."

Sam doesn't object, so Dean raises the fabric up and over Sam's head, and carefully pulls the sleeves of his arms. There he stands, his concave midsection exposed, his dried and peeling scabs under speculation for the first time ever. He hugs himself as Dean scans him, looking over every inch of his baby brother, still gripping him tight by his hips.

"Why?" Dean whispers. "Why do you do this to me?" 

Sam makes a face that is halfway between guilt and fear. "I'm sorry."

"No." Dean pulls him close enough to hug, wrapping his big arms around Sam. "I'm sorry. You were right. I can't deny it anymore, little brother." Sam can feel his brother's tears, warm against his bare skin. "I shouldn't have left you like I did. You needed me and I was scared because I need you too. I need you so fucking much it hurts to look at you. Hurts to see you hurt."

Sam's breath hitches and he kneels down, between Dean's knees, so that they're at eye level. Dean cups his little brother's face and kisses him gently all over; his cheeks, his chin, his nose, his forehead, his eyelids. When Sam feels that his entire face has been ghosted by Dean's lips, he plants his own kiss on them. They hold each other like this for an indefinite amount of time, as close as ever under the cover of the dark. 

"I love you," Sam whispers, rushing the words out like he'll die if he doesn't.

"Let me have you," Dean whispers in return, cupping Sam's face again and gazing at him with sleepy, lidded eyes; waiting for approval. 

Sam replies as he allows himself be lead into the bed by his brother, "I've always been yours."

Despite Sam's eagerness and approval, Dean doesn't try anything. He just holds Sam close, curled around him, like he's the only warmth to keep him alive. He presses small kisses to the nape of Sam's neck and nuzzles against the back of his head, then falls into a deep sleep minutes later. 

And for the first time in months, Sam sleeps through the night, undisturbed, with sweet dreams in mind.


End file.
